


favoritism

by bertee



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, M/M, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 17:44:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5793907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bertee/pseuds/bertee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Heyerdahl presents Jensen with an opportunity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	favoritism

It's hard to miss the sneers from the other slaves as Jensen makes his way to the bedchamber.

If he's honest, he doesn't really blame them. In any other circumstances, someone walking into Heyerdahl's chambers and holding a blade to his throat would be a cause for celebration. 

But then, as Heyerdahl likes to remind him so often, Jensen's special.

Stevens comes out as Jensen's entering, carrying a tray of used plates in one hand. Jensen lowers his eyes to avoid his glare but can't avoid the solid bump to the shoulder as they pass each other. It's enough to knock him into the doorjamb but Jensen keeps the shaving kit clutched tight in his hands and doesn't raise a protest as Stevens walks away. 

He's seen what Heyerdahl will do to anyone who lays a hand on his favorite slave. Stevens may be a dick but he doesn't deserve that.

"Jensen."

Heyerdahl greets him with a smile and Jensen forces himself to return it as he ducks his head in submission. "Sir."

The maids scatter at the cold click of his fingers, leaving the two of them alone in the bedroom as Jensen goes to lay out his tools on the table. Heyerdahl's footsteps are near silent on the carpet but after so long in his household, Jensen would almost swear that he can feel the temperature of the room shift as Heyerdahl draws nearer.

His fingers curl around Jensen's hips, bony and strong, and Jensen shivers at the creep of his breath on the back of his neck. He's half hard when he presses up behind him and as Jensen picks up the razor, he tries not to think about what might've made him so excited.

The blade's honed to perfection already. Although Jensen could probably strop it blindfolded after so many years of practice, he keeps his eyes down as he sweeps it across the leather and listens to his master speak.

"They were asking about you last night," Heyerdahl says, settling uncomfortably close. "It seems you made quite an impression."

Jensen swallows. Heyerdahl was away the previous night at a business event and while Jensen isn't sure exactly who was in attendance, attention from Heyerdahl's friends is never a positive sign.

"I suggested a gathering here next month," he says, running his fingernails down Jensen's ribs through his shirt. "I haven't shown you off for a while."

Jensen sets the blade down carefully. "Whatever you want, sir."

There's a pause as though Heyerdahl is going to say something but Jensen slips gladly out of his hold when nothing comes of it. Heyerdahl lets him go, taking a seat in his usual chair while Jensen goes to the bathroom to prepare the rest of his kit, but Jensen doesn't miss the predatory look in his eyes when he returns to wrap a freshly dampened and warmed towel around his face to soften his beard.

The towel keeps him from speaking for a moment, covering the lower half of his face, but Heyerdahl doesn't take his eyes off him as Jensen busies himself with his equipment. 

Unlike some masters, Heyerdahl keeps his bed slave well-clothed. Jensen's uniform of a high-necked shirt and carefully pressed slacks is neat and modest and while he may have dozens of replacements in his closet for when Heyerdahl decides to slice them off him, it does at least keep him covered. However, that doesn't stop him feeling stripped bare under Heyerdahl's gaze as he stirs up the soap cake and moves to stand between his master's spread thighs.

"When was the last time you were fucked in front of an audience, Jensen?"

The question comes as soon as Jensen lifts the towel off his face and settles another one beneath his chin to protect his clothes. Jensen's proud of the way his voice and his hands stay steady when he answers, "Three and a half weeks ago, sir. In front of Padalecki."

He watches Heyerdahl's brows dip in a frown as he starts to brush the soap lather along his jaw. "Padalecki…" Recognition sparks. "Ah. That was convenience -- he happened to be delivering a message at the time. When you were fucked in front of people purely because I wanted you to be?"

Jensen concentrates on the swirl and scrape of the brush against his skin, the bristles pushing foam up under the coarse hairs of his beard. "The end of January, sir. In front of Masters Rolston, Novak, and Wheeler."

It wasn't the most enjoyable evening of Jensen's life, being stripped down and ordered to ride his master's dick in front of his drunken friends, but it was far from the worst.

Heyerdahl smiles at the memory, lips curving up as Jensen works the last of the lather into his stubble. "In that case, I think it's high time for another turn." He runs his hand up Jensen's thigh while Jensen sets the mug and brush down. "Perhaps as the main event this time, rather than an after dinner diversion." 

He taps his foot against the carpet as he thinks aloud, "Apparently collars and leashes are becoming popular again. It's nice to see people respecting the classics." His hand closes tighter around Jensen's thigh, gripping hard enough to bruise. "Or I could just spread you open and tie you down. It's good to have options."

The blade glints when Jensen picks it up. "Whatever you'd like, sir."

He can feel Heyerdahl's eyes on him, sharper than the razor. "Which would you prefer, Jensen? The collar or the rope?"

"Whatever you-"

"I asked for a preference," he interrupts and ice stiffens Jensen's spine. "Not a platitude."

"The rope, sir." It's a honest answer but from the way Heyerdahl hums in consideration, Jensen isn't sure whether he's just guaranteed himself the collar instead.

Picking up the razor, he sets metal to skin and begins to sweep down into the hollow of Heyerdahl's cheek as he says, "Maybe I should share you. It's not as though there's any shortage of takers."

From his position between his legs, Jensen can't ignore the hardening length of Heyerdahl's dick but he holds back his shudder as he focuses on the way the razor moves through the foam and stubble. Heyerdahl's hand inches higher, moving around to grope his ass through his thin slacks, and Jensen submits to the touches, lets himself be pawed and petted like a toy as he shaves him smooth.

"I suppose then I could see what they see," Heyerdahl says, tilting his head as Jensen holds the skin taut. "I could watch just how beautiful you are when you're getting fucked."

"You can watch that whenever you like, sir," Jensen says, leaning in to shave along his jaw. "You have a house full of slaves at your command."

Heyerdahl tuts, lifting his chin to meet Jensen's eyes as he moves the blade to his other cheek. "I think I made it clear how I feel about the other slaves touching you."

Jensen bites his tongue. Heyerdahl's made it more than clear but Jensen refrains from pointing out the difference between other slaves fucking him on command rather than trying to do so against his will.

"Still," Heyerdahl says as Jensen swipes the blade over his cheek, "it's an idea. Maybe I should pass you around between some of those mechanics as a reward. I'd imagine they'd enjoy getting their hands on a pretty thing like you."

The razor trembles in his grasp but Jensen changes angles before it can bite into Heyerdahl's skin. He forces silence from his master as he carefully shaves along his top lip and his chin, but it's short-lived when Jensen eases his head back to shave under his jaw. Heyerdahl's throat is bare and pale, and as Jensen brings the blade down through his beard, he can't help but imagine pushing it in deeper.

"Do you think about killing me, Jensen?"

Jensen's eyes snap up at the question. His breath catches in his throat but Heyerdahl's mouth smoothes out into a smile. "I suppose that's a foolish question." His hand settles on Jensen's hip, fingertips pressing against his ass, but he keeps his neck exposed. "Everyone here thinks about killing me but you're the only one who gets close enough to actually do it."

The blade sits against his skin, bright silver on flesh, but Jensen can't make his hand move while Heyerdahl keeps his eyes on him.

"It would be so easy," Heyerdahl says, calm as lake water. "I'm unarmed. I'm alone. All you'd have to do is sweep that razor across my throat and I'd bleed out in seconds. All over you." He looks more devil than man when he bares his teeth in a grin. "You always look so very good in blood."

"Sir-"

"Do it, Jensen." Spreading his knees wider, he tips his head back further until he's barely keeping his eyes on Jensen's face. "Kill me."

There's a layer of mockery in his voice but the offer is still there. With his throat bared and his arms down, there's nothing he could do to stop Jensen slashing that shiny sharp razor through the arteries and sinew and muscle holding his head on his shoulders, and Jensen feels like he's shrinking at the vastness of the opportunity that's opening up in front of him. 

Heyerdahl's hard still, sickeningly so at the prospect of his own death at Jensen's hands, but that only adds to the churn of terror in Jensen's gut. He's been so good for so long, so submissive and obedient and sensible that the thought of active rebellion makes him lock up in fear. He's never raised his voice to his master before, let alone a weapon.

"I see how they look at you," Heyerdahl says. "To the rest of them, you're no more than a combination of my dog and my whore. Don't you want to show them you're so much more than that? Don't you want to walk out of here with my blood on your hands instead of your own?"

Jensen does. Desperately. Not even for the rest of the slaves -- he can live with the taunts and the stares -- but as he tilts the sharp edge of the blade against his neck, he can't think of anything that would make him happier than ending Heyerdahl's life right here. 

He's almost dizzy at the idea of it, of those steely eyes going dark and that cruel mouth falling silent as his blood splatters over Jensen's clothes and face and lips, and for one brief, bright moment, he thinks the bliss of it would outweigh any retribution that would follow.

The thought dies as quickly as it sparks.

Blinking away the sudden wetness in his eyes, he shifts the razor back up to his jaw and scrapes away the last few patches of lather and stubble. His heart's pounding but his voice comes out even when he says, well-crafted exterior back in place, "I don't want anyone's blood on my hands, sir."

Some of the tension dissolves when Heyerdahl chuckles and Jensen's grateful for the reprieve when he lets go of him long enough for him to pick up the damp towel. 

"No," Heyerdahl says under his breath, "of course you don't."

Jensen feels more sure of himself when he wipes Heyerdahl's face clean, as though his master ordering him to slit his throat was just a fucked-up dream. When Heyerdahl guides him to his knees, Jensen folds down easily, settling into the familiarity of the position while Heyerdahl's cold fingers curl under his chin.

"You know why you're still alive, Jensen?"

In spite of himself, Jensen smiles. This too is familiar. "Because you like me, sir."

Heyerdahl strokes his knuckle along his cheek. "Do you know why I like you?"

Jensen can think of a couple of reasons, mostly to do with taking pain and taking dick with equal competence, but settles for a shake of his head. "No, sir."

"Because you keep on surprising me." He almost sounds fond when he brushes his thumb over Jensen's lips. "People rarely do that."

Unthinking, Jensen presses a kiss to the pad of his thumb and Heyerdahl's smile widens as he flicks the button of his slacks open.

A welcome tranquility settles over him as Heyerdahl's hand moves to the back of his head -- this, he can do -- and as he settles between his legs, Jensen lets the open razor and all its possibilities slip out of his head.

(For now.)


End file.
